The Cruise Capper
by thewooddied94
Summary: The Sherlock crew go on a cruise trip because its John's Birthday and Mycroft is a creep, and didn't anyone know he had interests too? Thrown into even more chaos after a man ends up dead; who said solving a case on a ship was easy, especially with all the other weird stuff going on? A story who's seriousness resembles Anderson's IQ, crack ships everywhere; Johnlock, Mystrade, etc.
Authors note: Sherlock is not our property, it belongs to all those responsible, we are merely just borrowing these characters and pointing out their gayness. Maybe a little bit OOC, probably lots of spelling errors, changing POVs, and defiantly lots of crack. Takes place around the start of the series.

"The Cruise Caper"

Chapter one ~ Empire complex

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From the perspective of a handsome, intelligent, and mysterious stranger (a.k.a. The Queen of England, less formally known as Mycroft Holmes)

Mycroft was on his day off, rare, and he had planned to spend the entire day in bliss, staying home and enjoying cake (god knows Sherlock would have said he did that every day even if he wasn't away from work), when certain responsibilities interrupted his thoughts. When it wasn't work it was work and when it wasn't that it was work and when there truly was no work there was his brother, more specifically his brother and his "interests." Honestly, wasn't Sherlock aware he had interests too? Was the man unable to pick up a phone when it rang? Was he unable to meet him when they planned, and was he always out of the house at such bad moments? Granted Sherlock had no control over when he was called out for a case, but still, he should be more considerate.

With no other idea as to where his brother might be and how Mycroft might contact him quickly, the man was left to go looking for his brother at the Scotland Yard. He couldn't make his assistant go out 'brother hunting' for this was far too private a matter. Plus Mycroft needed exercise anyway.

He walked to the downtown office, where Sherlock and his new pet were known to be working; there was no one at reception, so he had to trek up to the offices. Sherlock, of course, was nowhere to be seen and neither was John, so Mycroft was left with no brother still and a little swell of anger towards everything, including all of those pesky under-paid government employees.

But not all were so pesky.

Stressed and not ready to make the walk back to his home quite yet, Mycroft went out into one of the service stairwells for a smoke. To his surprise, another man had the exact same idea as him; the detective, at least what Mycroft had inferred him to be, had a smoke in his mouth, though unlit and a lighter in his hand. The man looked at the government agent rather stupidly, in shock Mycroft would presume.

"I . . . was not smoking." The man said dumbly. Dumb, very dumb (was this man really a detective?) but at the moment Mycroft was focused on other things. This man, whoever he was, had light grey hair and dark brown eyes, really, Mycroft had never found another human being of interest, but this man had enticed him, he was, to say the least, attractive.

"Well, I never would have guessed that."

The man frowned and squinted at Mycroft, as if checking if he was there or something. "Yes well," The detective put his lighter back in his pocket, and a stern look grew on his face. "Who are you exactly?"

Mycroft repeated his name in a dreary fashion, the other man saying "I'm Greg."

 _Greg_ , _average name,_ Mycroft thought to himself, _not an average figure, although._

Apparently he had been staring a bit too long, because Greg started to look at him suspiciously again. "Why are you staring at me and what do you want?"

Mycroft moved his eyes from Greg's face, to look up and down Greg hungrily; making sure Greg could see the motion.

"I think the kids now a' days are calling it 'checking out'", a look of shock was given on Greg's part. "and, to answer your second question, I had originally come out here for a smoke but now I have different intentions."

There was a pause, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"As if that changes anything."

Another pause, "What can I . . ." Greg stopped, looking for the right words, " _willingly_ help you with?"

Ah, so maybe his 'brother hunt' would be of use. "Have you seen Sherlock Holmes around?" His brother's name was practically spat.

"That twat."

"Obviously you don't like him."

"Well, I never would have guessed that." It was Mycroft's turn now to give a scowl, which quickly transformed to a smirk.

"What do you like?" He practically purred.

For a moment Greg seemed to be paralyzed, but than a smirk grew. He made eye contact with Mycroft, something he hadn't done previously, and said smoothly, "Depends on who's asking."

"What if a handsome, intelligent, and mysterious stranger you met in a stairwell asked you, what would you like?"

"Not this conversation." Greg deadpanned.

"Would you like to do something _else_ then?" And oh God, Mycroft couldn't stop himself from sending the detective a wink.

Greg's response was interrupted by a loud and high pitched "Ping!" that came from Mycroft's phone, signifying a text message. The man ignored it, waiting for Greg to respond, but his phone continued to "Ping!" loudly.

"You going to answer that?"

"They'll call if it's an emergency." Of course Mycroft's ring tone came on at that exact moment, causing Mycroft to frown and Greg, it seemed, to have to stifle a laugh.

"What?" He asked angrily into the phone.

Sherlock's voice rang through the other end, sounding slightly panicked. "Emergency, come at once."

"Why do you talk like it's a text message?"

"Come."

"Where?"

"221 B of course!" Sherlock snapped before hanging up abruptly, leaving Mycroft no clue as to what was actually going on. He was so angry he was about to release a series of curses, but realized Greg was still with him, looking rather confused.

"Sherlock." Mycroft explained.

Greg nodded and finally took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, tossing it into the trash can. "Well then I guess you'll be going." He said in a way that implied that he definitely wanted that.

Mycroft chuckled "Unless you'd like me to stay?"

The detective muttered strongly, "Sorry, but I've got stuff."

Mycroft's eyes wondered across Greg's body again, he licked his lips. "Oh, you certainly have _stuff_."

Greg frowned. He waited a moment before rolling his eyes and pushing past Mycroft to the door. "Goodbye, handsome, intelligent, and mysterious stranger." And he was off.

It took twelve angry knocks on the door for Sherlock to come and open it.

"I thought you had a key." Sherlock responded to every single one of Mycroft's very annoyed complaints.

Mycroft scoffed, "This is why you're the dumb one. You can't even remember such mundane things."

"Why would I waste my time?" And of course this reminded Mycroft why he himself was wasting _his_ time with Sherlock. Was he not doing something rather important, and was he not interrupted for something obviously not an emergency? "Anyway, dear brother of mine, this crisis I'm having, I need your help."

" _Need_?"

"Yes, Mycroft, _need._ Now listen, John's birthday is in a few days and I have no clue as to what I should get him."

Mycroft and Sherlock climbed the stairs up to the detective's flat as Sherlock ranted out his problems, adding a few dramatic flares here and there. Finally Mycroft was able to gather that Sherlock was too lazy and too bored to get John a present, so he needed Mycroft to get it for him. Why Mycroft? Obviously because the queen of England knows what people want, at least according to Sherlock. Granted, this time around his brother was correct; he had something perfect in mind for Mycroft's surely-soon-to-be brother in law.

"So, will you help me?" Mycroft was angry, that was for sure, but he had a plan that he most certainly wanted to see through, and he had never been too good at saying no to his little brother.

The elder of the two made as if he were thinking before remarking slyly, "For a price."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose.

"Were you expecting me to just do you favors for nothing?"

Sherlock sighed and impatiently tapped his fingers on the arm rest, getting bored. "Fine, what's the price?"

Where should he start? "Really Sherlock, this crush you've developed is quite embarrassing, first off that you have it at all, and the fact that you're trying to hide it from me, well-" Mycroft paused to paint a scandalous expression on his face, "that's just sad."

Sherlock was in shock for a moment, but he'd clearly expected this. Yes, he probably would have preferred if Mycroft hadn't known, but what was he too do?

"And so I have a proposition for you, Brother, I've planned a . . . trip for you and your goldfish and by the end of it I would like to see that you have at least made some effort in the way of getting with the man. And by this I don't mean what you've been doing here," he waved his hand in disgust towards the room, "but a real relationship in which normal people have, I'm assured you've heard of something like that?"

"Have you?"

"Don't be sassy, Sherlock, I'm only trying to help." Mycroft smirked, knowing he had won.

Sherlock asked Mycroft what the gift was, and if John would like it. Mycroft answered first by saying a cruise through Europe that would last about two and a half weeks, and then later answering that he had no idea how John would like it. Sherlock asked why Mycroft had thought of this already, and Mycroft said he did not like surpassing Sherlock in both brains and social lives so thoroughly. This conversation, Sherlock asking and Mycroft giving sarcastic answers, lasted about an hour and would have continued longer had it not been for-

"Sherlock! Are you there!? I, me, yes me, bought the milk again, it's your damn well turn but I did it, are you happy, is this what you want in life?!"

Mycroft opened his mouth to explain to John what Sherlock _really_ wanted, but Sherlock replied loudly by saying he was eternally grateful and that yes, it was his turn, and yes, he was happy, and yes, he did want John to get the milk for the rest of their lives together. John walked through the door, about to scream and curse at Sherlock, but saw Mycroft smirking in one of the armchairs (his to be specific), John becoming startled.

"Mycroft, I didn't know you were here." The man walked to the fridge, flinching when he saw a bag of feet, but moving it away to place the milk safely on the shelf.

"Yes, well, Sherlock had a dire emergency."

"Really, what was it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nothing, John, I needed my phone."

"Then how'd you call him?"

"How did you know I called?"

"'Elementary, my dear Sherlock.'"

Mycroft was quite fascinated in the childish conversation his brother and John seemed to pursue daily; no wonder Sherlock's deductions were worsening. "You two are rather cute."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really, Sherlock quite the pet you've chosen." Mycroft said this all so that John, across the flat in the kitchen, couldn't hear, but his voice was slowly rising. "I used to wonder why you liked him so, but now I see it: he gets you milk!"

Sherlock hissed, "Shut up."

"Why?" Their voices were now loud enough that John's attention was caught on the two's conversation.

"I'll tell Mummy that you put frog legs in her wig at Church."

"I'll tell her that you were the one who switched the thanksgiving turkey on the table out with a live one."

"I'll tell her about the time that you put ants in all the neighbors' beds."

"I'll tell her about that one Christmas where you turned the chimney on for Santa."

"Santa doesn't exist."

"Don't change the subject Sherlock."

Meanwhile, John stood off to the side; confused and amused, making tea. "You two are quite the bunch." He placed a tea cup in front of Sherlock and looked at Mycroft questioningly. "Do you want sugar?"

Mycroft didn't respond to John, only smiled and looked at Sherlock. "He knows how to make your tea."

"Yes, it's very stressful when he sends you back to fix it two or three times." It was obvious; John was a fool, a goldfish at its finest. Mycroft was about to point this out, but Sherlock must have seen the smirk and quickly rose.

"Well then brother, I'll call you tomorrow." Mycroft scoffed, this was far too entertaining to leave now but the look on Sherlock's face told him that it was high time. The second time on his day off that Mycroft would be robbed of amusement by his brother.

"Fine then," He stood and waved lightly, not turning as he descended the stairs, shouting over his shoulder, "And Sherlock, pack your things, you leave on the 22nd, and John," Mycroft seemed to have walked back to look at Sherlock warningly, "I hope you don't get sea sick."

And he was off.

Events in the life of a High-Functioning Sociopath who is incapable of buying the milk (also referred to as Sherlock Holmes)

"Sherlock, what was that about?" John looked at Sherlock, Mycroft's warm tea cup still in his hand. "Why can't I get sea sick, what's happening on the 22nd, tomorrow I mean, bloody hell, why do you guys talk like that?"

"You ask too many questions." Sherlock flipped up his robes and sat in a position which was more comfortable and which was acceptable to sit in, because his brother had departed. "Take a guess, John."

John scowled and seemed to have become annoyed; of course John could not guess as to what Mycroft was hinting at, so he got agitated and changed the subject. "It was you're turn to buy the milk."

"Milk . . ." Sherlock said, drifting off into a daze.

"Yes, Sherlock, the milk-" John started to lecture Sherlock on his responsibilities, not only to him but yada yada yada, why should the man have to listen? He already knew all this, but that wasn't why he was off in another world. Mycroft wanted him to "make a move", as most would put it. But Sherlock had never done this in his life, not truthfully at least. He wasn't nervous and not really committed, but how was he to make John reciprocate feeling that Sherlock wasn't even able to label himself?

Sherlock sighed and this reaction seemed to satisfy whatever John wanted, so the other man wandered off into the kitchen, out of Sherlock's view. There was silence, which in their flat tended to be a rare occurrence, before the conversation (more like toned down argument) he had with his brother came back to him. They stayed that way for a while, John bustling about the flat, cleaning, moving stuff, doing all sorts of troublesome work. He didn't complain, though Sherlock could tell he was angered by his mess.

"Don't bother yourself with any of that-" Sherlock lulled, remembering that it was high time he tell John about the trip he (Mycroft) had planned.

"Are you kidding Sherlock, this place is a mess! And I'm certainly not at fault. I'm not going to live like this; I don't care if you don't clean up after yourself, not really, but at least let _me_ clean up after you."

The taller practically growled from behind his cup of tea, before his eyes met the others' and he remembered that what he was going to tell John was not news which was meant to be delivered with a scowl. "John, pack your things."

"Excuse me?" John turned to look at Sherlock. _Stupid,_ the detective thought.

"You can't be that much of a fool; do you not understand what pack your things means?"

"No I'm just-"

"Confused?"

John seemed to inhale a little too deeply, this wasn't going as planned. Was John not to be excited by this news? Sherlock sighed and scratched his head, allowing the other man to calm down as he pondered the normal way that someone like . . . Anderson, would say this. "We're leaving, on a trip, I would like you to pack up all the things you think you will need for about eighteen days on a-"

"What?"

"What, what do you mean 'what?'"

"Is this for a case?" John looked angry now. "God damn it Sherlock it's my birth day next week, do you care so little that you are shipping us off on some case?! Or did you just forget, not even bother to stick it in your-"

"John-"

"Shut up Sherlock, let me talk! It's not just the milk, but now my bloody birthday! I know you don't give a shat about holidays, but I do!"

"John, this is for your birthday."

"A case, Sherlock, you got me a case for my birt-"

"No, I got you a cruise." The man in question, _the very stupid_ _man_ Sherlock couldn't help thinking, stood confused. "I bought us both first class (he inferred they were first class, the Queen of England never did less, after all) tickets on some fancy cruise trip across Europe. For your birthday. For you. I was simply explaining to Mycroft that we wouldn't be in London for a little while."

John's face turned ashamed. "Oh." He mumbled half to Sherlock, half to the floor.

 _Damn, idiot that was a failure to say the least. I'm certain Mycroft could have done better in his sleep- look at him, he's angry at you._

"See now this is usually when you say something like, 'Pfft, john, don't be so dumb to believe that I would actually get you a cruise-'"

"I didn't get a cruise; I got you, us, a _ride_ on a cruise."

John waved this off as a smile broke out across his face, "-but you haven't taken it back yet so that must mean that you weren't joking and really mean it! Wow, what should I bring?" Starting to run around the flat, grabbing random stuff, Sherlock felt he had accomplished the mission half decently, when John came up and jump-hugged him. John. Him. A childish jump hug. "Thank you, Sherlock!"

And that's when it started, John bustled and bubbled the rest of the day, grabbing everything as if the two were traveling to Narnia. "Toothbrush?"

"Probably."

"Bed sheets?"

"No."

"Pillows?"

"No."

"Blankets?"

"Let's just take the whole bed then!"

And that's how it went, Sherlock let John pack his stuff for him, and John was happy to do it. Sherlock couldn't stop smirking.

"You know john, this means you won't have to buy the milk for another eighteen days."

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The phone started to ring at 2:00 am sharp. Sherlock was asleep on the couch, for John had stripped the bed of most of their contents, leaving only the living room to sleep. John lay in his arm chair, his feet slung onto Sherlock's chair, the other man was oblivious to the ringing phone, but Sherlock awoke almost automatically.

"John!" He mumbled sleepily. "Get me my phone!" John of course was deep in sleep, so he did not hear Sherlock's pleas.

 _Too tired._ The man crawled his way slowly onto the floor, fumbling around in the dark. His hand made contact with the ringing phone and he lifted it to his ear.

"Don't call people at this hour." Sherlock mumbled into the phone, he hadn't even looked at the caller ID, but knew who it was before the other person started talking.

"Sherlock, it's Lestrade, did I wake you?"

"No, I was completely awake at two in the morning."

There was a grunt from the detective on the other line. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and squinted. Now that he was more awake, he could clearly hear the police sirens in the back drop on Lestrade's side. _A case!_ The detective sat up straight, a case could be entertaining . . . but then the cruise hit him. And he remembered. No case for eighteen days, and being stranded on a boat in the middle of nowhere with normal, snobby people.

He hadn't considered what a pain that would be.

Thinking about this, the man mumbled out, "Are you at a case?"

"Yeah, and I'm stumped, could-"

"No."

"No? What do you mean 'no?' Look Sherlock, this is important, the British government is at stak-"

"Don't care."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock yawned and rolled over onto the couch, pulling the phone aware from his ear as Lestrade whined. _Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid._ But he had to explain, if not for the need to shut Lestrade up, but also so that he didn't piss the man off with his and John's sudden disappearance.

"Look Lestrade, John and myself are going on cruise for the next few weeks, I can't do-"

"A cruise?!"

"Yes, a cruise."

"You can't go on cruise!" The other man shrieked. "Do it later, they found a terrorist who's planning to assassinate some high British official-"

"I told you I am going on a cruise, I can't help."

Lestrade made a rather strange growling noise, before composing himself. "Why can't you go after the case?" The detective asked in a more natural tone, desperation seeping through into his voice. "This is urgent."

Again, Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Like I could care._ Sherlock liked murder, but terrorists weren't his cup of tea. "Sorry Lestrade, the cruise trip stays."

Another estranged grumbling. And another, and another. "Why can't you change the trip?" Lestrade was starting to sound rabid again; Sherlock could hear his agitation growing.

"John's birthday is coming up and we decided a trip would do us both well."

At this Lestrade seemed to start huffing-and-puffing at Sherlock's straw house.

"John's birthday! Sherlock, this is more important than such ludicrous bull shit! This concerns national security! Forget John's crappy birthday! It will come along next year right? And do you even care about it in the first place?!"

Lestrade could insult Sherlock all he wanted, but then he went after John? The consultant detective dropped the phone onto the floor, not bothering to hang up. This of course failed, for Lestrade could still be heard screaming and screaming. Sherlock started to panic, John started to twitch. The man started to fumble around in the dark again, his eyes hadn't adjusted at all and he fell flat on his face.

"First that creepy guy in the stairwell and now this shit with you?! I swear Sherlock, you had better get your ass down here or I'll-"

Lestrade's rants were cut off by a loud "Ping!", signifying Sherlock having hung up. The flat became silent, deathly silent and Sherlock flopped back onto the couch in exhaustion and anger. _Stupid Lestrade, Stupid, stupid, stupid! Let him deal with "national security" on his own! That ass can rot in hell for all I ca-_ Suddenly the phone started ringing again. Sherlock planned to ignore it completely, he didn't need to listen to Lestrade screaming about how he'd hung up on him, but then voice mail came on.

"Sherlock, are you awake?" The voice wasn't Lestrade, but Mycroft. Sherlock rolled his eyes again, curling back up into his tired ball, but Mycroft kept talking. "Sherlock, I know you're there. Get up. Get up or I'll start to scream bloody murder about your feelings toward one army doctor who I'm certain will wake." Sherlock's eye burst open and he fell onto the floor for the third time that night, crawling on his knees for the phone. John was squirming, Mycroft was screaming and damn it! That was the desk leg he just ran into.

"Sherlock and John sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, first comes murder, then comes the chase, then comes a clue in a pink suitcase!"

"What are you yelling about?!" Sherlock hissed into his phone, running off to the bathroom and locking the door as to try and save John from being woken.

Mycroft snickered. "I knew you were awake brother." Sherlock growled, sitting down on the edge of the bath tub, rubbing his fingers into his temples and trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness.

"What do you want?"

Sherlock could feel his brother smirk. "Oh, I just wanted to tell you a few details about the trip."

In the dark of his bathroom, Sherlock had almost forgotten about the trip. Eager to get to sleep, but even more eager to bug Mycroft, Sherlock started being sarcastic and grumpy (how he was currently feeling). "And why exactly did you feel like telling me this at two in the morning?"

"It's not two, it's two o' eight; your wits seem to be lessening my dear brother." Mycroft snickered again, Sherlock grumbled. "But anyway, I just had some time on my hands. Another threat to my life supposedly."

Sherlock smirked. "I hope he gets you this time."

"Ha, ha, very funny Sherlock. Nothing to worry about, just another one of Mother England's annoyed little people looking for someone to blame. I am simply caught up in my office till they catch him. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you when your cruise leaves today and where."

 _Oh._ Those things had never passed through Sherlock's mind. How could he have been so stupid as to not have asked about such important details? Maybe Mycroft was right, maybe Sherlock was losing his wit . . .

"At noon, sharp, and it's the S. S. Lusitania." Sherlock raised an eyebrow to the name, trying to place where he'd heard it before.

". . . Isn't that a government ship?"

"Yes, well it is also a passenger liner for the elite from time to time. And Sherlock, remember, I'm not doing this for free. Make a move or-"

"Or what?" Sherlock snapped. He was tired and angry and didn't need to deal with his brother. Frist that annoying stuff with Lestrade and now this shit with Mycroft! "Look Mycroft, go eat some cake. I can do whatever I bloody well please to do. First it's those bloody idiotic detectives I work with, those bloody idiots who couldn't figure out who stole the damn cookies! Well you know what I'm tired of dealing with those fools and then you! Thank you for the cruise Mycroft, now stick your nose in someone else's business!" He hung up the phone, panting after his rant and clutching onto the side of the toilet for support. When he felt something sticky on the toilet lid, he decided it was time to get up and go back to bed . . . well, the couch.

Sherlock mumbled all the way back to the living room and fell limply into his old sleeping position. He felt slightly ashamed, he shouldn't have acted as childish as he had, but oh well, and the past was the past. The detective sighed. He laid there for a long time, but sleep never fell upon him again and he got up to retrieve a glass of milk. The kitchen was in shambles after John had dug through it in his excitement. Sherlock smiled as he open the fridge, the glow of artificial light making him flinch.

The man poured himself a glass of milk, only noticing the sticky note when he was putting the carton away. On the side, John had left a note that had words scribbled messily onto it. Sherlock smiled when he read them.

"I hope you enjoy the taste of milk bought by me, because I won't be buying it for another 18 days!

:) –Thank You!"

From the perspective of a handsome, intelligent, and mysterious stranger (a.k.a. The Queen of England, less formally known as Mycroft Holmes)

Honestly, could his brother be more agitatedly childish and unappreciative! Not only was he overreacting to Mycroft's attempts at assisting him but he was also making this trip out to be something like a get-away from his pesky co-workers and not a trip with John, where he could get off of his butt and make a move. Well then, if Sherlock didn't take this trip seriously, why Mycroft would have to do something to help his stupid little brother along . . . but how? Mycroft ate cake (yes, cake. He was stressed. He deserved some) and sat in his office chair until dawn. He sat looking out the window at the beautiful and full view of London through his window.

And then suddenly that man popped into his head. Greg. While deep in thought, rather highly rated thoughts about detective Greg, an idea came to mind. A. Brilliant. Idea.

Mycroft was in such a hurry to find his secretary, Anthea; he dropped his precious cake all over his new carpet. But he didn't notice, he ran down to her office at the other end of the hall and stuck his head in. "Anthea! I have something important for you to do. Now! Meet me in my office!"

Mycroft ran back to his office, for reasons unknown because Anthea wouldn't get up for three minutes and fourteen seconds; it was one of her habits. Either way, Mycroft sat down in his chair, used his feet to turn his back to the door. Why? So that he could look out the window in a creepy, superior, and sophisticated way.

Okay, maybe, Mycroft had and Empire complex. So what? He waited patiently; his thoughts wondering lustfully back to Greg . . . when his assistant walked in.

"What is it sir?"

The sun was coming up over the city, lighting the dull and dreary streets of London with a nice touch of pink and orange.

"Anthea, do you know the cruise we had planned for my brother and his little gold fish?"

"Yes."

Mycroft waited for a second, collecting his thoughts. "Well, I would like you to buy a few more tickets." There was a sound like writing and Anthea asked Mycroft to continue. "One for me, and also, call all of Sherlock's colleges. Tell them this is an order from higher up the chain: they are to be going on the cruise with me. Keep it under wraps, make sure Sherlock doesn't catch on," Mycroft turned to face Anthea dramatically. Okay, he definitely had an Empire complex. "Sherlock thinks he's going to escape me? If he makes a move maybe, but otherwise I'd like to see how his colleges react when someone tells them about his little crush."

His assistant wrote frantically, not looking up to ask, "And when should I tell them to arrive?"

Mycroft rubbed his chin, looking to the clock. It was seven thirty-two, so in three hours and fifty-eight minutes? Sherlock was bound to be late, so the logical approach was to meet these detectives beforehand so Sherlock and John wouldn't spot them.

"11:30 sharp. Tell them to be prompt and to bring the basic necessities, I'm certain the cruise will provide the rest. Don't tell them anything about me, or Sherlock. I would like this to be a surprise for everyone involved. " Anthea nodded, turning to leave.

"And Anthea," She glanced back at her boss. "Tell them that the S. S. Lusitania. is a high-class ship, they are to be on their best behavior, and once on it they cannot leave."

Anthea nodded, turned swiftly, and without another word, she was off.

Events in the life of a High-Functioning Sociopath who is incapable of buying the milk (also referred to as Sherlock Holmes)

It was truly chaotic. Somehow John and Sherlock had gotten kicked out of their cab because _someone_ kept calling the driver stupid, and now were stranded in the busy docks of London, having no idea where to go and six minutes to figure it out before their ship left without them. Didn't Mycroft say that this was a sophisticated cruise for the elite? Why in the name of England did they almost get run over by a guy selling fish? It was unexpectedly frantic and even though Sherlock knew every inch of London, including her famous docks, this was just too loud and Sherlock couldn't concentrate, and John turned out to have superior map reading skills, and in general this whole cruise was starting to look like a disaster when they spotted the name "S. S. Lusitania." in bolded letters above them.

"Well, Sherlock, it looks as if we've found it."

"Really?" Sherlock said in a somewhat sarcastic yet slightly excited tone. The shorter looked up at the man in an adoring fashion, or was John just looking at the ship?

Pulling Sherlock and their excessive amounts of luggage behind him John practically ran onto the cruise ship. Being as late as they were Sherlock didn't expect there to be any passengers not already boarded onto the ship but instead there was a line at the entrance. "How lovely."

John was not deterred, however, and the ships departure was delayed about an hour while they and about eighty-eight (exactly if one counted the ugly looking poodle) other strangers stood in line, the shorter man rambled and jumped around like a five year old on sugar high. Finally they made it to the front of the line, and were the last ones to board. Sherlock had started to panic because it seemed that the majority of passengers had physical tickets, which Sherlock had also conveniently forgotten to ask about after hanging up on his brother. The rest of them without tickets, twenty-four, looked _extremely_ wealthy and were probably on some sort of list. Sherlock doubted his brother would have bothered with lists, but they really had no other options.

When they got to the front of the line with two threatening guards in fancy red uniforms, Sherlock took the lead, standing in front of John. He was about to say something he thought would be sophisticated, but was interrupted when the smaller of the guards smiled and looked at the two.

"You both must be the Holmes." The French accent the man had contributed to the oddness of the statement. Sherlock was shocked for a moment but before he could form words John spoke.

"Excuse me?"

The man's very white smile didn't falter. "Welcome on board the Lusitania, congratulations on the wedding Mr. Holmes, and, I suppose, its Mr. Holmes again!" The man continued to smile as Sherlock realized what Mycroft had put on the list. "Sorry for the delay, we'll be leaving shortly; I'll show you to your cabins." Without any other warning the French man was dashing away, beckoning Sherlock and john to follow him.

"Do they think we're gay too?" John mumbled to Sherlock as they rushed through the crowd.

Sherlock shrugged. "Must have mixed up the names." They made a sharp turn and were soon descending below the deck of the ship. "Shouldn't worry about it too much, I'm certain they won't mess with our trip to largely."

John sighed from behind and seemed to be nodding in agreement, but Sherlock couldn't catch a glimpse of him until they reached the empty hallway that led to their room.

"Welcome to your cabins! Here're the keys. I hope you enjoy your stay here on the Lusitania, if you ever need anything, simply call up to the front desk!" The man ran off, not stopping for breathe. Sherlock inferred the ship was in a sort of rush due to the late start, but he didn't even give his bloody name! For a first class passenger liner this was definitely not 5-star treatment, but really Sherlock could have cared less. He was tired, angry at his brother, and was about to pass out with each lurch of the ship.

But it seemed John was having the greatest time of his life. The soldier looked at Sherlock with pure excitement, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile when he lifted the keys and swung them aground teasingly.

"Open the damn door Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to the door and fiddled with the lock for a moment, opening the door to what he figured was going to be a grand room with two queen-sized beds and a golden tub or something, but Sherlock was startled, and rather angry, when he opened the door to find one bed.

"Why's there-" Sherlock stared for a moment, his anger at Mycroft growing. _That twat!_

The two walked into the room, and John looked just as shocked, when he started to laugh. "I get the bed." The man threw his luggage onto the bed and was laying comfortably and possessively over it. "You get the floor."

Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes. "I get the bed."

"I buy the milk."

"Well you won't be buying it for eighteen days."

There was a silence, in which Sherlock was thinking John was actually going to let him have the bed, until the man mumbled, "Yeah, well you'll be sleeping on the floor for eighteen days," he laughed. "Better get used to it."

From the perspective of a handsome, intelligent, and mysterious stranger (a.k.a. The Queen of England, less formally known as Mycroft Holmes)

An hour and thirty minutes previous~ 11:30am sharp

Had he known what type of chaos was to be waiting for him, Mycroft would have left his home for the cruise at a much earlier time. Anthea and himself had been practically run over by a man selling fish, and about thirty other people were walking about randomly, conveniently running right into them. Mycroft hoped that the other, more established passengers wouldn't be so rude, but he was once again surprised. Standing just to the side of the plank that led onto the ship (where they were to meet), Mycroft waited with his suitcase for the detectives he had had Anthea ring up a few hours previous.

 _It's already 11:58, what is taking those people so long?_

A loud crashing noise came from the other side of the docks, where Mycroft looked up and could see a bunch of people falling over and heard the loud curses of some very angry people. Out of the angry crowd, emerged a group, who at first, looked as if they were walking about randomly, until Mycroft realized they were running STRAIGHT AT HIM! The man had only a few seconds to fling himself out of the way. He landed on his side in the dirty street, the group of runners smacking right into the boat.

"What that bloody hell?" One of them screamed, as if he hadn't just seen a ship coming at him.

Mycroft stood, holding onto the ship, staring in shock at the group.

"Damn it! We're still late!" A high pitched female yelled. She stumbled away from the boat (there were four people, two had fallen, the other two had flattened their faces on the wall) wearing a lab coat and heels.

"Of course we're late! We left twenty minutes too late thanks to someone!" Another woman screamed. She was one of those that had fallen. The women's gaze fell on the other person that had fallen, a young looking man who rubbed his head as to eliminate, what would Mycroft would assume, to be a head ache from running head-long into a solid object.

"Well sorry! I had to feed my dog!"

As strange as the group was, tumbling about and cursing, Mycroft recognized them after a while of observing their behavior. They of course, never noticed both the man they had run over and the man who had hired them there.

"I would presume you are the detectives from Scotland Yard?" Mycroft shouted rather angrily. The faces of the detectives turned pale white, though Mycroft wasn't paying much attention at all. He was boiling, no wonder Sherlock was maddened by this bunch. "Come."

The man grabbed the handle of his drag-along suitcase and walked quickly up the plank. The detectives didn't have much time to compose themselves, and they seemed like little chickens following Mycroft. Showing all their tickets to a young French man in red, Mycroft and the group started heading for their rooms (Mycroft already knew where the rooms were for he had spent quite some time on the S. S. Lusitania, last spring). Not once did the angry government agent look back at the fumbling fools, though he did lecture them and complain the whole way there, in a very dignified, Empire-way of course.

"When someone tells you to arrive at a certain time, you should arrive at that place, _at_ the given time, not later." So on and so on. Mycroft received a lot of grumbling and "sorry's" from the useless bunch, but none of them really said much until they reached the cabins.

That's when Mycroft noticed.

Turning around, Mycroft came face-to-face with detective Greg.

"Oh." Mycroft said shocked.

"You . . ." There was an awkward pause in which both men seemed to be in an endless staring contest, but Mycroft couldn't help a smirk from breaking out on his lips. Greg seemed rather taken back and soon looked very angry. "Sorry, but we can't do this." He deadpanned. "Scotland Yard is not under the control of your division anyway."

"You don't want to enjoy the cruise?" Mycroft enquired sarcastically.

"With you?" Greg asked with venom in his voice. "No. Come on guys le-"

And just as Greg and his people (who looked very befuddled) were getting ready to leave, a large jerk in the boat made them stop.

"What was that?"

Mycroft smirked and there was a larger jerk, one that made Greg's face turn pale when he realized two things: One) the ship was off and Two) Greg and his people were stuck with Mycroft for eighteen days.

Cliff hanger! To be continued! So how'd you guys like it? Please comment or follow or what-evers, hope you all enjoyed . . . and yeah. :3

The End!


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